Grains of Truth About the British Summer

This post contains language some may find disturbing. I do, however, feel the need to unburden my mind from the travesty among us. As the British summer approaches more and more of us will become beholden to this most irritating of natural things.

I am, of course, talking about sand!

Having just spent the first of probably far too few summer weekends on the beach with two young children, two in-laws, a husband and brother-in-law, I am reminded that sand gets everywhere. I thought I had mentally prepared myself for this event. I am, naturally, not inclined to strip my trainers off and run deliriously into the ridiculously-cold-no-matter-how-hot-it-is British sea, just to remind myself I can lose my breath all too quickly. I remain somewhat stoic in my trainer socks and trainers attempting to keep as much of the grainy gold stuff off my skin as possible. The rest of the crew however aren’t so considerate. No, they strip off their tootsies and wade in forgetting the impact of their actions as I inwardly groan while snapping photos of them.

The sand, my goodness, it gets everywhere. When we decide to leave, no matter how many attempts I make to dust the sand off it gets into every nook and cranny. I drag the now-dusty socks off my children and use them to pelt the sand with vigour. When this fails and I have copious amounts of sand in my mouth, I move to the now soggy sea-drenched towel and proceed to duly wipe the sand away. However I return home and find the sand still in situ. Before allowing anyone in the house I grab my Dyson from the house and begin to hoover the sand. Tired I may be following an inordinately long drive home but I can’t stand the thought of this sand taking up permanent residence in the new carpet.

Finally I win the battle of the sand and I can finally let the children into the shower to get their share of the beach off, resolute in my decision I am NEVER taking my brand new car to the beach again!